


A Third Wish for Miranda

by Phlebas



Category: Original Work
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-09-11
Updated: 2005-11-21
Packaged: 2017-11-05 13:38:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/407056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phlebas/pseuds/Phlebas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wishes can be more trouble than they're worth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Autumn Evening

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that this is an abandoned WIP and never likely to be completed.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Wherein an unusual customer is dealt with._

Tiffany waved the last customer out of the door and half-collapsed against the counter in a huff.

"Fairy princess are so bloody popular. I bet they're bitches, all of 'em."

Muttering to herself about the probable faults of anyone so unwise as to be born into a Position of Power, Tif tried to convince her tired feet to carry her behind the register so she could begin her usual closing up routine. Even less than the rest of her body, they didn't seem to want to respond to her mind's most cogent arguments.

More or less resigned to staying put for a little, Tif permitted herself a moment of, in her view, pardonable pride. When she'd started it initially, _Princess Miranda's Music and Instruments_ had been nothing more than a small booth on market weekends, a way to get rid of some of her less cherished work as well as make ends meet while in between jobs. However, the past four years had seen a remarkable growth ending with the purchase of a shop that, although small, was crammed with sheets of music and unusual instruments.

Of course, these days, she didn't only carry her own work. Her store was the focal point for several local musicians, composers and wood carvers. All she stipulated was that everything she sold be musical in some way or other. So, from the fancifully carved, but dusty, harp standing in one corner, to the clay ocarina that had just made its way out of the door, the store was a mess of uncatalogued items laid down in the most haphazard manner. Used to the more ad hoc running of her previously mobile business, Tif had yet to get used to her new location, despite being stationary for well over six months already. Running a rueful eye over the contents of her shelves, she renewed the promise she made every Friday. "This weekend, I really _will_ clean up!"

The helpful reminder that it really was Friday was enough to get Tif around the counter and into her sneakers. The vertical boost combined with more comfortable shoes was enough to maintain her momentum. "Thank god for Fridays! Just shut the shop and get out of this confounded rig, the accounts can wait till tomorrow..."

Her self-encouraging monologue was rudely interrupted by the loud bang of the door slamming open. Left swinging in its wake, the bell meant to warn of customer arrivals valiantly attempted to fulfil its duty by ringing a discordant accompaniment to the angriest customer Tif had seen all week.

He marched right up to the counter and rapped on it with the silver head of his cane. "I am Chancellor Herwick and I demand to speak to Princess Miranda." Although delivered in a flat monotone, there was no quibbling with the demand in _that_ voice, thought Tif with a wry twist of her mouth. This, however, was something she was used to. Although the title was a new variation, she was usually forced to deal with something similar at least once every couple of months. Of late, the increasing popularity of her little shop seemed to have led to an increase in such occurrences. Yet again, she cursed herself for the flight of fancy which had led her to name the shop for the whimsical childhood pet name her mother had bestowed on her.

Composing her face into a neutral expression, she launched into the, by now, well-rehearsed speech. "I'm sorry, sir, but Ms. Miranda only makes the instruments. She doesn't actually work in the shop herself. My name is Tiffany and I handle all the day-to-day arrangements. It is past our usual closing time, but for a customer such as yourself, I could certainly delay a little. Is there anything I can help you find, or are you looking to commission something special?" The first time she had to make this explanation, she'd stammered and blushed so much that the man she was talking to had assumed she was minding the store for someone else and promised to come back later. All these years later, she was still somewhat thankful that he never had.

This man looked more than usually offended. Above his high collar, his mouth pursed as if he'd just bit into a more than usually sour lemon. "I am _not_. I bear a message that has been entrusted to me for the eyes of her highness alone." His gloved fingers drummed furiously on the edge of the counter as he stared into space and appeared to lose himself temporarily in thought. Finally he appeared to come to some conclusion. "Endless botheration. Where does she live?"

Tiffany was starting to become alarmed. This man was proving to be a little more persistent than most. "I'm afraid that information is confidential, sir. I'm very sorry to be unable to help you, but I'll have to ask you to leave so I can close the shop now."

Herwick had barely looked at her before, but this unexpected defiance certainly got his attention. He placed his cane one the counter and rested both hands on it, leaning over the table to pin Tiffany with a hard glare. The topaz eyes almost seemed to emit sparks. "Are you denying a simple request for information, girl?" The tone carried a hitherto unvoiced menace.

Bugger. Unwilling to anger a potential customer further, Tiffany fell back on her last line of defence. "Of course not, sir! It's simply that I only communicate with Ms. Miranda through the post. She has a post office box where I forward all her commissions. You could certainly send your letter there." She reached over the counter to snag one of the pale green cards and present it to him. "That's her address. I don't know if she'll respond or not of course, she's very busy with all the work we've had coming in lately..."

Herwick fairly snatched the card from her hand. ' _Princess Miranda's Music and Instruments_ ' spelt the elegant calligraphy, '27 Fothergill Terrace, P.O. Box 182'. He scrutinised it as if looking for things Tif would never have thought to find in a business card. "And this is the only way of contacting her?" Once again the fingers performed their restless dance on the counter. "Very well. When next you speak with her, please inform Princess Miranda of my call and that I hold every expectation of coming into communication with her presently." He removed his cane and walked to the door, standing before it with an expectant expression.

Almost weak kneed with relief, Tiffany realised that he expected her to open it for him. Whoops. Well, that was a mistake that could easily be remedied. Dodging around the counter, she grasped the door handle, only to find him staring at pointedly at her sneakers with an ironically raised eyebrow. Thankfully, he was content to let his expression speak for him. Tiffany blushed and swung the door open to admit him into the blustery autumn evening. Only it wasn't. Instead of the pile of leaves that inevitably accumulated, scuffing against the door as if pleading for entry, the gust of wind blew a small drift of snow across the door frame as Herwick nodded casually to her and walked out of the shop and into a winter snow storm.

As the door swung shut on her very last customer of the week, Tif thankfully flipped the sign from open to closed and fell into the embrace of the nearest chair, her gaze riveted to the now spreading puddle of rapidly melting snow.

An arpeggio rippled from the strings behind her. _'Well now,'_ said the harp in the corner, _'you're in a spot of trouble aren't you?'_


	2. Through the Madding Crowd

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In which there is both conversation and mashed potato._

_"Look, at least sweep the snow out the door before it melts all over the floor. I don't want water anywhere near me."_

Tif roused herself enough to bestow a withering look on the exceedingly dusty harp. "You could do it yourself." Shoving herself out of the chair, she grabbed the broom from the back room and started pushing the now sodden mass out the door.

 _"Why should I, when I have you to do it for me?"_ the voice replied, tartly. _"I don't help out for free, you know that. Besides, you're the one that let him out."_

Tif brushed the last of the snow out of the shop and onto the curb. "I didn't know I'd be letting in a snowstorm at the same time. Furthermore -"

The resonant gong of the grandfather clock temporarily overrode the argument. "Blast. Friday, and it's half-past six already. Martin's expecting me for dinner in fifteen. I can't spare the time to mop the rest of this up. I think you're safe for the moment, anyway."

Tif dashed up the back stairs to grab her purse from the bedroom. Prompted by the stream of complaints drifting up from the floor below, she made a quick detour into the upstairs bathroom. "I haven't got the time to do anything more," she replied, as she clattered her way down the stairs, tossing a bath mat midway between the harp and the slowly expanding puddle. "There. That'll keep you dry for now." A wave of her hand cut of the half-formed protest. "I'm sure I can rely on your sense of self-preservation if I'm late. Watch the shop for me."

Locking the door behind her, Tif let the currents of the crowd pull her down the street and through an arcade before ducking into the back garden of McAnley's pub. Elbowing her way through the crowd in search of Sarah McAnley and food, Tif was muttering dire threats about the fate of people who let snow into her shop, when a large hand dropped onto her shoulder. She jerked away just as Martin's booming voice rang out over the raucous noise of the crowd. "Tif! It's just me! I got Sarah to reserve us a table over there."

They fought their way to one of the booths along the walls, sliding in opposite each other. Protected by the partitions behind them, the table was an island of comparative silence. Martin looked at her oddly. "I ordered already. I hope shepherd's pie's okay. Um... you realise you're still wearing..." His hands made vague help-me motions. "You know, the outfit."

Tif became even more grumpy than before. "Couldn't spare the time to change. Last customer made me late and 'nora was being even more irritating than usual." The arrival of dinner made a welcome interruption to the conversation.

Martin grabbed a spoon and dug into his own meal. "I'll never know why you put up with that roommate of yours. You're always complaining about how annoying she is, never helping out around the place or anything. I mean, she doesn't even help with the rent! As far as I can see, the only good thing about her is that she's never around. Face it, she's free-loading off you. Why don't you boot her out and take in someone else? I know the apartment's not huge, but you can do better than this!"

Tif grabbed a drink from her coke in order to buy herself some time. Martin was always after her to replace Lianora with a better roommate, insisting she was being imposed on - that other people would be so much nicer to live with - more helpful around the house - take him for instance...! All fine in theory, the problem was that, in reality, Lianora was actually a harp that didn't help with chores because it had no arms. Not that Tif could say any of that. So she fell back on her standard response. "Ah, she's not that bad. Fact is, I'm used to her. If she ever gets really awful, I'll call you and you can come kick her out into the snow for me. Look, I know you didn't invite me out to dinner in order to berate me about my feckless roomie." Tiffany flashed him a brilliant smile over a forkful of mashed potato. "So, my old and tangy fruit, I ask again, what's up?"

It was Martin's turn to squirm in his seat. "It's about those flutes you sent out of town with me last week. Something kinda weird came up and I got a little worried." Seeing the look on her face, he made little dismissive motions with his knife and nearly skewered the table candle. "No, no, nothing like the last time. They were actually the first things to go and none of the buyers came back to complain. I wouldn't mind having another batch with me the next time I head out there. It was actually a guy that came up to me at the end of the weekend, when the market was almost over. He wanted to know where I'd gotten your stuff, who'd sold it to me, that kind of thing. Like he couldn't tell, what with your cards in all the cases! I gave him a card anyway, just in case he wanted to look you up, but then he got a bit hot under the collar, asking after Princess Miranda and whether I knew her and stuff like that. So I gave him the usual spiel about how Miranda doesn't talk to anyone over the phone, just takes commissions through the mail, only what interests her, that kinda thing."

His voice lowered as he continued, "I could tell he wasn't buying it though, and he was weirding me out with the way he kept calling you Princess Miranda, you could almost see the capital letters. So I went ahead and told him that the whole princess thing was just a gimmick for the kids, so they can say they have a real fairy flute and stuff. It's just something your mom used to call you when you were a kid. Then he looked at me really oddly and left." Martin wound his story to a close with a disclaimer. "I don't know anything about why you named your shop the way you did, and I'll admit the kids love it, but if this is what you had to deal with, it's not worth it! He was really creepy. I just wanted to warn you in case he came sniffing around here is all." He fixed her with anxious eyes. "I didn't say anything I shouldn't have did I?"

As Martin narrated his way through the incident, Tif's fork had gradually slowed down until it now hung in mid-air, dripping gravy and occasional lumps of potato. "What? No!" She came back to life just in time to rescue the pea perched precariously on the edge of her plate, skewering it with a fork tine. "I mean, you didn't say that I'm Miranda, did you?"

If possible, Martin now looked more uncomfortable than ever. "Well, maybe. I don't think so, but I can't be sure." At her accusing glance, he immediately took refuge behind his beer.

Tif dropped the fork into her empty pie dish and pointed the knife at him as if casting a spell with it. The overall witchy impression was only reinforced by the black lace gown she hadn't bothered to change out of after work. "Then you definitely said too much. You have _far_ too big a mouth, my friend, and are now in very big trouble. If I were a real witch, you would now be a _frog_." Tiffany tossed the knife back onto her plate with a gesture that made it clear just how much she'd prefer to stab something with it. "What did he look like?"

Martin shot her an astonished look. "How should I know? Taller than you, dressed funny, carried a cane. Actually that was one of the things that made me pay attention. You know how allot of your customers dress up?"

Tif slid further back into the booth and crossed her arms to make it clear that she was still annoyed with him. "Yeah, so? That's why I always wear this medieval stuff in the shop. It fits the part."

Martin's hairy eyebrows creased in puzzlement until they looked like a single caterpillar with a bad case of hunchback. "This guy wasn't wearing that sort of thing, but he wasn't wearing normal stuff either. Some sort of suit, but not a business suit, more like an old-fashioned suit. Went with the cane he was carrying though." His face cleared suddenly and he gave her his most engaging grin. "Looks like you have new admirer. I should have given him my sympathies instead of a hard time, I know what a hard-hearted wench you are!"

This attempt to charm his way back into her good books didn't improve Tiffany's mood. "He came to the shop today. Tried to intimidate me into talking to him, but didn't seem to connect me with Miranda. So you might be off the hook." She pinned him with a hard stare. "I said ' _might_ '. We'll see how persistent he ends up being. Still, if he gets too annoying, I know who to blame now, so you'd better watch your step, my fine frog." She gave him a triumphant smile as his cocky grin faded to an alarmed look. "You can start paying me back by treating me to dinner."

Tif was sliding across the leather seats and out of the booth before Martin got further than "Hey!"


	3. A Night for Surprises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In which music of a different sort is played._

Tiffany made good her escape by slipping out the front door instead of the back garden. As she squeezed through the press of the crowd she was pursued by the sounds of instruments being tuned. She paused as soon as she gained the side walk, trying to catch the melody of the band's first piece. As soon as she identified the words of 'The Barnyards of Delgaty' being bawled over the crowd noise in Martin's baritone she allowed herself a grin. As long as Martin was up on stage, the chance of him following her home were slim and none. Although still mildly annoyed with him, she didn't really blame Martin for almost giving away her identity. Never very discreet, at the best of times, he couldn't be relied upon to keep a secret to save his life. It didn't surprise her at all that he'd failed to stand up under the pressure that the man she now assumed to be Herwick would have put him under.

Normally, she'd have stayed to listen to the band, perhaps even joining in herself, but that would mean answering more questions, and not just from Martin. Tif shivered slightly in the wind, made all the more aware of the dropping temperature by the lack of a coat. The slightly longer walk was the reason she usually used the pub's back, rather than front, entrance. Wrapping her arms around her waist, she started walking faster in order to keep herself warm. If she'd managed to catch a word with Sarah, she might have been able to borrow a cardigan or something. She was only a couple of blocks from her shop, and the apartment above it, but Sarah would never have let her leave without wrapping up. The thought of the kindly maternal woman brought a smile to her face and a spring to her step.

The McAnley pub had been a landmark for as long as Tiffany had know the area.. Then run by old Gordon McAnley, it had been her evening refuge after long afternoons spent in the open markets. Adopted by the older regulars as a new audience for their oft told tales, she'd been dismayed when Gordon passed away from a heart attack a year ago and it looked like the pub might have to close. That was, until Sarah stepped in. Some sort of cousin on his father's side, Sarah was like a magic whirlwind that swept aside all arguments and took over the kitchen, bar, and just about everything else. The one addition Sarah'd made to the running of the pub was to hire local musicians to play just about every evening. Tiffany, being both a regular and well established in the local music scene, was one of the first people to be asked.

Although, initially a rather mixed bag of whoever happened to be in the room, the musical line up had gradually settled down to several regulars who knew each other and many of the same pieces. Still without a name after six months, Martin now found himself fronting a group that was slowly making a name for itself, forcing him to split his time between McAnley's and his wood carving business. Little wonder that he had more important things on his mind these days than her personal life. It was a small miracle that he'd even remembered the incident instead of dismissing it completely.

Given all the effort Herwick had gone through to track her down, how likely was it that he would just send a letter and forget all about it when he received no reply? Not very, was Tiffany's personal assessment. How to persuade him to go away?

Absorbed in plans to dissuade Herwick from pursuing her, Tiffany almost missed the sound of regular footfalls on the pavement behind her. All her senses suddenly alerted, she strained to gauge how far away the person following her was. Not far enough, was the conclusion she quickly came to. Too close to switch directions and go back to McAnley's anyway. Speeding up her steps under the pretense of feeling the chill, she could hear the pace she set being matched and then exceeded. Not good, not good at all.

Reaching into her purse, Tif made a grab for her keys and the whistle she always carried. Pestered endlessly by Sarah to get a personal alarm, she'd instead made herself a whistle that emitted a singularly piercing note, designed to be heard over even the loudest of noises. The one and only time she'd tried it, at Sarah's insistence, it had overridden all the bar conversations and reached into the kitchen to deafen the cook. Glimpsing the unlit shop windows only a couple of meters away, she decided to blow the whistle to alert any passers by to her need for assistance, before making a dash for safety. However, she'd keep the keys in her hand as a makeshift weapon.

Making good on her decision, she raised the instrument to her lips, taking a deep breath and blowing as hard as she could. The results, however, were not what she expected.

Rather than the single tone that it had previously produced, the whistle gave birth to a rising wail that almost made Tiffany clap her hands over her ears. Unable to resist a backwards look over her shoulder, Tif saw a fair haired man in dark clothing collapse to his knees, hands pressed against his temples. By now thoroughly unnerved by the note spiraling upwards over the deserted streets, Tif picked up her skirts and fairly ran the last few steps to the shop. She fumbled her key into the door, practically falling into the room as soon as it came unlocked. Slamming the door behind her, she pressed her back to it and sank ungracefully to the floor.

Lungs straining from the sudden exertion, Tiffany closed her eyes and rested her head back against the wood of the door. Over the frantic beating of her heart, she strained to catch any noise coming from outside but was met with absolute silence. As moments passed without any dramatic happenings, Tiffany dared to open her eyes on the ceiling and door handle directly above her. Although there didn't seem to be any one attempting to break into her beloved shop, something was still wrong. Unless she'd imagined it, there ought to have been a small puddle of water where she was now sitting. "Lianora? What happened to the last of the snow? You didn't clean it up, did you?"

"No," said an amused voice from beside the unused fireplace. "I did. That was quite an exhibition you put on out there. Is your life always this exciting?"


	4. Tea and Scones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Containing a conversation within which some questions are answered._

Tif's sneakers scraped on the floor boards as she scrambled to her feet. "Who's there?" Her voice rang sharply in the dark as she closed her hands around the reassuring weight of her keys. "How did you get in?"

Beside the hearth a shape detached itself from the darker shadows around it. "I was invited, of course. Be easy, Mistress Tiffany, for I mean you no harm."

Reaching past the door handle, Tif's groping hand came into contact with the light switch. A small click was the only warning before the room was suddenly illuminated by the light fixture overhead. The intruder in front of her winced at the influx of light, raising a hand to shield his eyes. Having anticipated it, Tif's hand was already placed between her face and the ceiling, giving her a precious few moments to asses this stranger.

Taller than herself, though not approaching Martin's bulk, the dark haired intruder was dressed in black jeans and a threadbare green sweater than would have passed unnoticed almost anywhere. Looking him over, Tif reflected that he looked far less noticeable than she did in her medieval dress. Still, it meant that, unlike her, he wouldn't be hampered by clothing if it came to a fight and the unflappable calm in his voice indicated an unwillingness to be thrown out. Tired out and in no mood for yet another confrontation, Tif was very close to losing her temper. "I certainly didn't invite you and breaking and entering isn't exactly an act calculated to endear you to me either. Now, unless you'd like to be arrested, I suggest you leave whatever you've stolen and get out of my shop!"

The man lowered his arm and squinted at her. "I didn't think you'd actually mistake me for a thief. Rest assured, I haven't taken a thing, though you're more than welcome to turn out my pockets if you want to be certain." The mischievous grin that spread over his face at her blush made Tif want to hit him. "My name is Allen, and I swear that all I've done since entering your home is clean up your floor and sit quietly in that chair waiting for you to come home."

Tif backed away from the door toward the counter. There was a phone on it, and she wanted the ability to call for help in case this 'Allen' turned out to be some dangerous maniac. "That still doesn't answer my question. I locked the door before I left. How did you get in?"

From the harp resting in the corner opposite Allen came a discordant ripple of notes. _"Ah, actually, I invited him."_

Tif stopped dead in sheer astonishment. "You did _what_?"

 _"Well, I couldn't just leave him to linger on the door step till you came home, now, could I?"_ Lianora snapped back. _"That would have drawn the attention that you're so set on avoiding. If you'd only listened to me and gotten -"_

Tif's temper snapped. "Wonderful! Of course it's all my fault for not setting up a security system! Is it too much to ask that you keep some sort of look out? I can't _believe_ you let a total stranger into the shop! Well, if you're so keen on inviting your new found friends in, you can bloody well take responsibility for them!"

_"I will not! I had to let him in, or he'd have been a walking advertisement of your presence for whoever was hunting you tonight. If you'd cast a spell of avoidance like I'd suggested, none of this would have happened!"_

"This is a shop! It's supposed to attract customers, not send them away!"

_"And the shop is all you care about isn't it? Never mind me, stuck in here with all these musty old instruments, never polished or tuned. I, who was played at the court of King Rhun!"_

"Oh, yes? Played yourself, is more like it! 'The Queen hath killed me...' You couldn't have come up anything more overdone if you'd practiced for a week! A drama queen to the very end!"

_"How about you? Martyr to the end is so much better isn't it? Taliesin himself took me to the court of King Arthur! You're just jealous! If you'd only pay attention to what I'm trying to teach you, you could -"_

"I don't care what I could do! I don't do magic! You can take you airs and graces and go hang!"

Eyes widening at the increasing volume of the escalating argument, Allen gingerly inserted himself between the two combatants. "Ladies, please! If you don't simmer down, you're going to give rise to noise complaints! At worst, the neighbours will think there's a domestic dispute going on! _Please_. Can't we sit down and discuss this quietly?"

Silence reigned for a long moment as both females abruptly shut up. Tif took a deep breath and began counting silently in her head. Only when she was up to fifty did she feel her ire subside enough to think clearly. Her hands were clenched into fists so tight that the keys were cutting into her palm. She made a conscious effort to relax them. "Go sit down. Lianora obviously trusted you enough to let you in so she can keep an eye on you. I'm going to get us something to eat."

Warily, Allen backed away from her and towards the twin chairs on either side of the fireplace. She watched him long enough to make sure he was firmly ensconced in the one opposite Lianora before heading into the small kitchen located behind the shop. "Tea?" She called, pouring boiling water over leaves in the teapot.

"Uh, yes, please." came the answer. The voice itself sounded a bit bewildered and Tif smirked to herself as she detected the note of uncertainty in it. Snatching two mugs off the shelf to keep the teapot company, Tif tore a couple of scones apart before shifting everything to a handy tray. Snagging butter from the fridge on her way out, Tif nudged the door open a bit further to make sure she didn't spill anything.

Her entrance caught Allen staring at Lianora, who somehow gave the impression of watching him very closely despite not having any eyes. The clatter of the tea things being placed on the table between them brought his attention back to Tiffany. He looked mildly apprehensive and made motions as if about to get out of his seat. "I said sit. You don't have to protect 'nora from me, I'm not going smash her into kindling no matter how much she deserves it."

The corner of his mouth twitched upwards. "Mistress Tiffany, the fact that you can say such a thing makes me all the more certain that she needs protecting! I'm getting the feeling that it might be wise to put myself between the two of you."

Tif eyed him carefully to see if he would change seats, but he only reached out to pour tea into both mugs. "But that would put your back to her and you're not careless enough to do that are you?" She dropped into the other chair, putting herself in front of Lianora. "Help yourself to the scones."

As she watched, Allen used the blunt knife to spread butter on a piece of bread before popping it into his mouth. He smiled at her as she relaxed minutely. "Salted butter, eh? Nice one. Now that I've eaten your bread and tasted your salt, will you believe that I mean you no harm?"

"The road to hell is paved with good intentions," intoned Tiffany, "and I've the feeling that you bring enough trouble without having to inflict any."

Allen picked up his mug and settled further back into the chair. "True enough. I'm actually here because of Herwick's visit this afternoon." He raised a hand to silence her before Tiffany could open her mouth. "Yes, I've been keeping a watch on you, and no, I'm not one of your crazy stalkers. It's been for your own protection, actually. You're an awfully hard woman to keep track of, Mistress Tiffany, but that doesn't mean that nobody will try. Do you remember, oh, about five years ago, when you were just starting your business, a man who asked you about Princess Miranda at the harvest fair?" Tiffany nodded slowly. "Well, then."

The nagging sense of familiarity that had been nudging her ever since she got a good look at him became recognition as the pieces suddenly fell into place. "That was you?" It was Allen's turn to nod as she searched his face. That had been her first time at a fair and she'd been so self-conscious about hiding her identity that she'd blushed and been unable to look him in the eye. As a result, she'd never gotten a really good look at him but a closer inspection revealed the same features. Dark brown eyes below straight brows, thin lips that now smiled reassuringly, and a nose that, once broken, had never healed quite right. Though attractive, there was still something wrong about that face. "You look like you haven't aged a day!"

"No more than do you, Mistress Tiffany. Have you never wondered why that's the case? All these years I've watched you and you've never seemed to question it, or your mother."

Tif pinned him with a hard stare. "What's my mother got to do with this? I'm only twenty eight, it's not unusual to look a little younger than my age. I've got friends who are still carded, for goodness sake! You, on the other hand still look thirty something even though I know you're closer to forty-five!" Allen raised one eyebrow in inquiry. "Your driver's license. I copied your address from it so we could send you the next catalogue. You never replied to the letter Miranda sent either."

"I didn't have to, I'd already found out what I came to know. I matched your writing to the letter 'Miranda' sent me. Watching you for a couple of months after you opened this store only confirmed that you'd invented her to divert attention from yourself, Tiffany Miranda Atheson." He grinned triumphantly and shook a finger at her as Tiffany shifted in her seat. "You can't have thought it would stay a secret forever, especially with the friends you've got. That Martin, he can't keep a still tongue in his head."

The glare Tiffany aimed at him would have peeled paint. "Oh, I know. The real question is, how do you know? I didn't find out about that till just this evening."

Unwontedly somber, Allen swallowed a sip of tea before making a reply. "Herwick announced it. He said that he'd finally found Princess Miranda and Prince Aldrien immediately ordered a ball in your honour. That's the invitation that Herwick wanted to deliver, but when you wouldn't admit your identity you placed him in a quandary. My guess is that he'll try sending you the invite through the post before having to admit that he persuaded your friend to give you up."

Tiffany shook her head like a horse attempting to discourage flies. "Wait, wait. This is crazy! Between you and Herwick, this talk of balls, Princes and Chancellors is starting to make me feel like I've stepped into a fairy tale. Look, although you've obviously realised that I'm both Tiffany and Miranda you've got to understand that Princess Miranda doesn't exist! I made her up! It's just a nickname my mother used to call me by before she became... sick."

"Ah, but that's where you're wrong." Allen placed his mug on the table between them and reached over it to take Tiffany's hands. "She does exist. Because, to all intents and purposes, you are, currently, a member of the royal family."


	5. Closing on the Witching Hour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In which family history is discussed._

Tiffany looked at him blankly, blinking. "I'm what?"

Allen refused to be put off. "You are a member of the royal family. Whether you're actually entitled to use the title of 'Princess' is currently the subject of some dispute but..." He shrugged.

Tiffany yanked her hands out of his grip. "Ha ha. Very funny. Is this some arcane form of humour? If you're going to waste my time with this rubbish you can get out of my shop right now, you, you -" Tiffany spluttered, finding herself unable to muster further invective, before pausing to think it over further. "Why aren't I angrier?"

Allen sat back in his chair, eyeing her warily. "Because you know it's true. Or at least, that I _believe_ it's true. You can feel my sincerity." His lips twisted wryly. "It's probably the only reason that you haven't pitched me out the front door bodily. You've got good instincts and right now they're telling you that I have information you need. Unfortunately, you've also had a long and annoying day and you need to take your temper out on _someone_. I'd rather it was Lianora than myself, but we take what we can get." He picked up his mug again, meeting her eyes over it's rim. "Of course, your decision to add Valerian root to the tea might also have something to do with it."

Tiffany's hand clenched on her thigh. "Though I have your word that you mean no harm, you must realise that most of the people I meet would not be bound by such a promise. I also remind you that Valerian is a sedative and not a poison," She picked up her own mug and sipped, further emphasising the point. "and that I am drinking the same brew as yourself." With all the talking, her tea had cooled significantly. Tif gulped the rest of it down, feeling less and less like fiddling with it. "I accept your word that you have no harmful intentions towards me tonight. That's still leaves allot of leeway and you might have been a dangerous maniac." She snorted at the thought that occurred to her. "You might still be a dangerous maniac. I'm simply not your prey, not tonight at any rate."

Tiffany placed her empty mug between them like a line drawn in the sand. "However, as you've so rightly pointed out, I've had a very long day, filled with unwelcome news as well as visitors and I'm in no mood for further game playing. Now, as I'd like to see my bed sometime before midnight, and your credentials are established to my satisfaction, I'll be glad to hear what you have to say so I can get some well earned rest."

Allen had remained very still while Tiffany was speaking, restricting himself to an acknowledging nod when Tif had pointed out her failure to cause him harm. His body language, leaning back into the comfortable embrace of the wing back chair, hands in plain sight occupied with the mug, were all calculated attempts to reassure. Attempts that were largely negated by the underlying tension that still rode his body. As such, Tiffany was determined to remain on her guard. Harming a guest was a serious breach of courtesy and people who still followed the old codes of behaviour had been known to take offense at lesser slights. His intentions might not be overtly harmful but there was still the possibility that he might harbour a lingering grudge. She allowed herself a mental sigh. All this second guessing was way she tried to stay out of the way of Lianora's world as much as possible.

"Time for some straight talk then." Allen's long fingers tapped out a staccato rhythm on the side of his cup. "Before I begin, I'd like to find out exactly what you know so I don't repeat myself any more than I have to. Fair enough?"

Tiffany pulled her legs up onto the chair seat until she was sitting cross legged under her voluminous skirts. "Fair," she agreed bracing her elbows on her knees, leaning forward over her lap.

"Right then. How much do you know of your parentage? Did you ever meet your father?" Allen took another sip of tea. Where hers had gone rapidly cold, Allen's was still steaming gently she noted, putting aside the observation to ask Lianora about later.

"No, never. My mother used to mention him occasionally when I was younger, after he left. Then she became ill, and well..." it was Tiffany's turn to shrug. "All I know is they never married, and he was the one to give me that ridiculous mouthful of a name." She rolled her eyes in familiar exasperation.

Allen chewed on his bottom lip in thought. "You know almost nothing then. That makes it both easier and harder. The fact that you can hear, and accept, Lianora is good, but much of this is going to sound a little alien from your perspective. How alien, given that you've obviously been taking lessons from her on how to protect yourself, will be largely dependent on much of our world you've seen." He performed a Spock-like eyebrow lift at her. "And, of course, how much you're willing to believe in."

"From my perspective, Lianora is pretty compelling evidence that 'there are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy'." Tiffany snapped. "As such, I fail to see why I should not learn how defend myself against them."

"And I do not say that you should refrain." Allen returned calmly. "I simply observed that it was a surprising, as well as hopeful, indication of your open mindedness." He waited for her to acknowledge his point before continuing. "Now, as you know nothing of your father's family, perhaps it's there I should begin."

"Your father was the elder of a set of twins born to Queen Iselle's sister, Princess Adrienne. Where we come from, inheritance passes through the female line rather than the male. It's one of the more obvious differences between this place and Lindon. Thus, although a Prince, he was not considered part of the succession. His younger sister Mirelle was groomed as the designated heir." He held up a hand to forestall the brewing interruption. "We're under constraints, some of which you yourself have imposed. Insisting that you have no connection to the royal family when you _know_ that I am very sure you do, will only waste my time and yours. If you have anything to say that's actually to the point, I'll be glad to hear it, if not, fruitless protests will serve neither of us." He only lowered his palm when it became obvious that Tiffany was going to restrict herself to mental rather than verbal mutterings.

"To continue. Queen Iselle took the oldest son of one of her neighbours as her consort and gave birth to a son, Prince Aldrien. Her sister, Princess Adrienne, next in line for the throne, was supposed to cement another alliance through the marriage which produced your father and Princess Mirelle but, unfortunately, died in childbirth. Do you begin see the trend here? Sons are married off as a means of sealing alliances, wedded to powerful women as a matter of politics. Younger sons, especially, are considered superfluous. Your father refused the marriage offered him and went into voluntary exile, leaving Lindon for -" Allen's wave indicated both the shop and the world that surrounded it. "- all of this. Nobody at court has heard of him for nearly a quarter of a century." A sour look passed over his face. "Not that anyone was looking."

"This is all history, if of the fairly recent variety. The current problem began with the death of Queen Iselle fifteen years ago. In the usual course of events the crown would have passed to Princess Mirelle, but she was lost to the same fever that took the Queen, and her daughter, Princess Genevieve, was young enough that a regent was necessary. Prince Aldrien, being still unwed, took it upon himself to fulfill that role. Over the last two years there have been, hmm, disagreements between them. After the most recent, Princess Genevieve retired from the capital and no one is quite certain why. The official line is that she is recuperating in order to be at her best for her coming of age ceremony, but current rumour has it that Princess Genevieve accused the Prince Regent of attempting to take the throne for himself."

This was all starting to sound like the prime scandal broth in a Sunday tabloid and Tiffany was barely preventing herself from yawning while Allen looked like he could have kept going all night. "Look, this is fascinating and all, but I don't know these people from Adam." She pointedly looked at her watch. "It's late and I'm all out of patience. Can we cut the gossip and jump to the bit that made you decide to break into my store?"

Allen looked mildly affronted. "I did not _break in_ , as you so delightfully phrase it, and I am at 'the point'. There are only two ways for Prince Aldrien to take the throne – he can either have his first cousin once removed assassinated or he can attempt to change the rule of succession to a patrilineal one. If the latter, you become his immediate heir, if the former... Well, as Princess Genevieve's closest female relative you stand between him and the throne."

This convoluted line of reasoning took a while to penetrate. Seconds ticked away as Tiffany sorted through the tangled argument but the conclusion jerked her awake as few other things could have. "Are you saying that someone is trying to _kill me?_ "


	6. Anger, Like Truth, Will Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In which voices are raised._

"I never said any such thing." was Allen's sharp riposte. "I have simply mentioned a possibility that you might wish to keep in mind during your dealing with Prince Aldrien."

"The possibility that he might want me _dead!_ That's not something you just, just -" Tiffany's feet hit the floor with a thud as she shook a finger at him. Several words were obviously fighting for exit on her tongue but what mostly emerged was an inarticulate sound of frustration.

Allen detached a hand from his mug in order to capture her wrist, fingers tightening over her racing pulse. " _Calm down._ You are becoming hysterical. Stop and think." Tiffany's hand formed a fist under his restraining grip before she yanked it away. "You must see now necessary it is that understand you the present situation before interacting with the rest of the royal family."

"I have no intention of doing anything of the sort! I don't want anything to do with them! You and they can all go hang!" Tiffany was out of the chair and almost at the door before Allen managed to grab her elbow.

"You _cannot_ ignore this, Princess Miranda. Prince Aldrien has been attempting to locate you for years and now he's found you he will not take no for an answer." His voice held a warning note but Tiffany was too angry to heed it.

She jerked out of his rasp and spun around. "Unfortunately for his Highness," she sneered, "I have no other answer for him. As for you, touch me again and you'll lose a limb!"She turned to slightly to face the vibrating harp "You can revoke his invitation any time now, 'nora!"

 _"Ah, actually, I can't."_ the words were surprisingly apologetic. _"He won't let me."_

By now Tiffany was apoplectic. "You ordered Lianora to let you into _my store_? How _dare_ you! Who do you think you are? What gives you the right to -"

Tiffany's tirade was cut off almost before it started as Allen clapped a hand over her mouth."Shut up!" he hissed. "We do not have the time for histrionics. At the risk of life and limb I tell you that you have no choice but to listen to me. Danger approaches -"

Tiffany bit him. With a startled yelp, his hand fell away and he took a step back as she advanced on him, backing him towards the door. "I may not be the world's greatest magician but this is _my_ home, warded by _my_ blood, and you do _not_ have my invitation to remain." She grabbed the door handle and it swung open to admit the cold October wind. _"Leave!"_ She yelled the word almost in his face.

The light bulb shattered and crawling shadows filled the store. A feeling of dread poured through the door and filled the room. Tiffany felt a sudden urge to be somewhere, anywhere, else.

The harp seemed the only one unaffected. _"Oh dear,"_ the strings whispered softly. _"You really shouldn't have done that."_


	7. Only This, and Nothing More

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _In which a new player enters the game._

Without conscious volition, Tiffany found herself hyperventilating. The prickling hairs at the nape of her neck were screaming that there was someone in the room with them, but searching looks failed to note anything out of the ordinary. Somehow the darkened room seemed much more threatening than before. Quite suddenly she wanted the reassurance of other people's voices. "'nora?"

The harp's notes came out unusually hushed. _"What?"_

"You okay? What's happening?" Try though she might Tif couldn't restrain the hysteria underpinning her voice.

 _"What do you think is happening? Someone's making a really spectacular entrance is what. How affected are you?"_ Though quiet, the tone was still urgent.

"A little... scared I think, but I'm holding up okay. What do I do?" Tiffany made a deliberate attempt to calm her racing pulse. It didn't work very well.

 _"Don't move a muscle and for god's sake don't extend an invitation. If it could bypass the wards it'd already be in here. So as long as we're inside, we're safe."_ The notes that made up the harp's voice were going from a minor key to a major one as Lianora regained her confidence.

Relieved of her primary concern, Tiffany turned to check on Allen and realised she had a much bigger problem. Although he'd initially reacted much as she herself had, freezing in place like deer in the headlights of a car, he was now shivering visibly. Cringing away from the door, eyes darting around the shop, he presented the appearance of someone terrified out of his wits. "Allen? Allen!"

Tiffany was reaching out to touch him when he began to slide down the wall she'd backed him against earlier. She managed to catch him, but only just, and his weight was enough to make her stagger. Their respective heights made it excessively awkward and the best she could do was lower him to the floor in a controlled fall rather than a total collapse. He went into a fetal curl, clutching at her hands, head in her lap. She touched his hair, a little bemused by his reaction. She was frightened yes, but some of the shock was wearing off. Now that she knew that whatever, whoever, was outside could not come in, she was no longer paralysed. Scared but not terrified. Whatever was happening, it was obviously having a much worse effect on Allen than her. "Lianora? What's wrong with Allen?"

 _"Oh, I don't know, how about the spell of dread or maybe it's the Dullahan at the door? Take your pick."_ Although the words were sarcastic, the voice in which they were said was tense and anxious. _"Tif, you've got to get him under control. The state he's in, he's as like to do something stupid as not. We really don't want that. Once we're sure he's not going to ruin everything, I think we can do something about this."_

"Hate to tell you this, 'nora, but I'm not in all that great shape either." She held up her trembling fingers by way of illustration. "I'm not sure how much more of this I can take." There was a suggestion of unearthly laughter on the edge of hearing. The tension in the room surged upwards a notch.

 _"You'd better get started then."_ Despite the unsympathetic statement, the fact that Lianora was still able to be her normal abrasive self was somehow comforting. _"Just remember, nothing can harm you inside the store. Your blood, your wards. Believe it."_

"Oh, I do, I do." Tiffany took a deep breath, centering herself as much as she was able. She turned her attention to the man now sobbing into her skirt. She bent over him and spoke right in his ear. "Allen! Stop it!" With a gasp he jerked away from her, flattening himself against the wall behind him, looking over her shoulder, past her at something she couldn't see. It felt like her skin wanted to crawl off her bones and curl up in a corner somewhere to hide. Still, with Lianora was watching her back, she wasn't about to turn around now, no matter how much her spine itched. Instead she reached out to him, making her voice as soothing as possible, crooning to him like she would to a wild animal. "Allen. Allen, look at me. You have to calm down, you're not helping anything, we can stop all this if only you'll let us..."

He made a sudden movement towards the door but she blocked off that avenue of escape, using her body to force him back into his previous position. He only intensified his efforts to get past her, alternately fighting or attempting to duck around her. "No, Allen! You can't leave, it's only safe inside, stop!" It was almost as if he wasn't hearing her, even though she was yelling right in his face. "Allen, it can't get us in here!" A noise somewhere between a whimper and a scream was her only answer. Not a good sign in her estimation. She grabbed his shoulder and shook him hard. "Allen! Look at me!" No response. Tiffany bit her lip. Well, she could always apologise later...

She slapped him. Hard. It made an audible crack as the palm of her hand met the left side of his face. Tiffany got the impression that Lianora was wincing at the force of the blow, but it got her the reaction she wanted. Heightened colour spread over his cheekbones as he stared down at her, anger combating the terror. Shaking from the effects of her own fury and the adrenaline pumping through her veins, Tiffany glared right back. "Look," she hissed, "right now I have bigger problems than you. I'll apologise formally afterwards, but right now I need you in control of yourself. It's hard enough to resist myself without having you drag us both into your panic. Got it?"

Fine visible tremors were still running through his frame but it was now an even toss between fury and fear as to the cause. His breaths came whistling between clenched teeth and his hands opened and closed spasmodically. He still hadn't answered though. Tiffany poked him in the chest with an index finger. Between the two, she'd choose fight over flight any day. "Keep your head and we'll get out of this just fine. You can be angry at me later. Do you understand me?"

This time the reply was immediate. "Oh yes, Mistress Tiffany, I understand much more than you know." Shoving her aside, he leapt across the room, grabbed Lianora, and was out the door in a single fluid movement.

Tiffany stared as his retreating footsteps were immediately overshadowed by the clatter of hooves. Two thoughts surfaced uppermost in her mind, popping like soap bubbles to deposit their contents. 'Oh. Crap.'


End file.
